


To hesitate is to lose

by icylook



Series: Vergil Surana [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-09-07 13:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20310532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icylook/pseuds/icylook
Summary: “So quick to judge, are you?” He feels a chill spreading from the tips of his fingers, an echo of his heart working fast in his chest. If he was in his real body, it would start to hurt. He has no idea why he is losing it in the presence of this one, and it starts to annoy him. He prides himself in staying cool in the eye of the danger, but this conversation is clearly testing his resolve. It is cracking. Not good.“An observation.” It turns slightly and starts to slowly walk along some invisible barrier. “One of the many,” It adds quietly, searing golden eyes never leaving Vergil’s form.It doesn’t blink.It is unnerving.He is so focused on maintaining the eye contact, that it almost slips him.“One of the many?” He frowns, the confusion bleeding through his control.





	1. Echo

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Blight year(s), Redcliffe

He looks around, taking in the hazy surroundings. Blurry silhouettes of various forms in the distance, the stray splash of colour. Movement and subtle changes. Everlasting whispers of no-wind, but something other, not exactly words, but sometimes like them, though he can’t, _no_, won’t pay attention to them.

Because years and years of _“Be careful of the steps in the Fade, always keep your guard up”; “The temptation awaits for any unprotected mage and the consequences are severe”; “You are a gate to the world and demons just wait to use you”; “What they offer is not real”_

This, this seems_ real_ for him. Maybe, because he is aware of what he has to do, conscious during the ritual that brought him here. 

Playing hide and seek with a demon, a tricky creature, which exploited a desperate plea of a defenseless boy. Was he really so helpless though, to interest such a powerful being? Or are demons really desperate, to use any means necessary to cross the Veil? 

But, this one didn’t cross it, not really. It merely played through the vessel, using their combined strength to kill and raise the dead. It was delighted by the terror and the misery it created through the boy’s hands. Vergil has suspicion that It fed on the fear and panic of others, but It preyed on the boy’s distress the most, letting Connor have the moments of illusive clarity. It was giddy to show him what was done, what _he_ had done to all around him. 

It would be better for the boy to not remember. Oh, he will go to the Circle, but what life will wait for him there? Even more miserable than of a regular mage, of that Vergil has no doubt. His noble origin and money of his parents will buy him some of the peace others would dream of, but the status of _“already possesed once”_ will be a death sentence in the waiting. If not by his own hand, then by some overcautious templar. 

Accidents happen, after all. 

He bought the boy few more years, he is aware of that. But he needs Connor alive and well, at least on the surface, and for how long the fog in the boy’s mind will hold. 

The memories of what he had done will catch up to the boy, in waking hours or nightmares. 

Nightmares never disappoint.

No one but him would know about the sacrifice and Vergil was ready to bargain the fragile mind of the other to get what he wanted to achieve. 

He was prepared to sell the soul not of his own, if it would come to it. A price to pay as long as it wouldn’t be _him._

But the demon surprised him by fleeing with a promise to keep It’s life, when he refused to budge on the terms of claims of the boy’s soul in the future. Vergil was waiting for the call out of his bluff, thinking the demon should have the upper hand in It’s domain, be more clever and fixed on a target. 

It wasn’t. 

It hissed in angry agitation and made him promise not to pursue It, when It hurriedly fled It’s domain. Leaving Vergil behind in an astonished wonder. He waited for It to appear for few moments then, ready for a fight that never happened. Then, he let himself slightly relax, looking around and feeling the Fade. It was, _is_, more peaceful than usual.

One detail doesn’t add up though - he doesn’t hear the song as clearly as in the waking world, always the background noise, louder in his sparse sleep.

The Fade, it isn’t as opressive as he remembers it to be in dreams and during the Harrowing, years ago, when the goal was so clear.

_don’t let them fail me don’t let them erase me don’t let them have me _

Is it because he knows what to expect this time? 

He walks slowly to the lyrium vein, so bright in colour, his fingertips carefully tracing it’s jagged form. If he cuts himself here, will it appear on his body out there as well? 

He wonders, how much of the usual warnings he was fed with over the years _are _truth. He presses harder on a sharp edge of the lyrium, almost feeling the skin of his finger breaking, like when he’d use a well sharpened knife, an impulse to use more force and see what happens - will he bleed here as well as in the waking world? Will they see the wound appearing the same way he does? Will they attack on spot and bury the sword in his chest or will they wait and see what, _who,_ comes back? Will his companions allow it?

Will they try to reason or fight for him, defend his vulnerable body?

Suddenly, he is startled out of his musings, when someone pointedly clears their throat.

Behind him.

Vergil turns rapidly and blinks to clear out the fog and focus on the figure. A white blur of a person stands at the edge of the domain, as patiently waiting for his attention. Only when they see him fixate on them properly, the form takes more details, like coming from under a body of water. They are sharper, detailed, looking more like a living one, not a grotesque body of a demon, nothing like the purple one he saw, talked, almost dealed with earlier.

What catches his immediate attention first, are the eyes. Golden and intense with a stare of a predator, intensified by the pure black sclera of a demon.

It is as tall as Vergil, maybe even taller, he can’t really tell from where he stands, until the creature flickers into being completely. Looking real and full, dressed in white stylized robes with golden ornates at Its chest, narrow waist accentuated by graceful lines of the cloth, with lapels obscuring long legs, but cut smartly for comfortable movement.

Vergil looks back at the face with sharp cheekbones, and plush lips painted in shades of black and gold, similar to the golden lines around Its eyes. He can see clearly now, a rich hazel skin, the slender line of Its throat hidden under a high collar of white robes. As white as Its short hair, elegantly styled back, unobscuring the long and visibly elven tips of Its ears.

It stands there, looking at him with arms behind Its back, completly relaxed, staring at him like at a specimen in a cage. For a moment, he feels like one, before he notices It doesn’t move beyond what he mentally names as the edges of the domain of previous demon. Perhaps the domain still holds the power of Its presence, not allowing this one to enter.

Vergil notices a hint of a fang when It starts talking.

“A demon chased away from their domain by no other of their kind,” It tips Its head in a slight nod, “but by a mortal. It seems you have a way with words. “

It doesn’t move beyond the nod, but Vergil immediately feels alarmed and he shifts on a spot. Something is off, apart from being so obviously sneaked upon.

He forcibly locks out the instinctive need to move, flee or fight. The force of it is uncomfortably staggering, as it definitely didn’t happen before with the demon he confronted in the domain. He uncurls his fists, slowly relaxing his hands, looking steadily back at the creature. He feels like facing an ogre, even if all It does is to stand and stare.

It was the calmness It seems to radiate, calmess of someone comfortable in their power.

Vergil can wake up at any moment and leave the Fade behind. _  
_

_In theory._

He has to concentrate and let go of the consciousness _here_ to gain awarness _there_, but with the new demon standing before him, he won’t dare to look away from It and let It rip his throat in seconds. No, it is too much of a risk. 

He shifts on his spot again, thinking of a discreet way of bringing up shields. He feels like he will need them. It still stares at him, waiting for an answer.

_“What a well-mannered demon,”_ he thinks. He doesn’t bother with a smile, but he tries to keep his face netural. “I merely sugessted a third option to the two presented by my previous,” he paused briefly, “interlocutor.”

“And in the end it worked well for you. You might have a bit of a talent in diplomacy.”

“Perhaps.”

It tilts head slightly to the side, “Modesty does not suit you.” It purrs, giving a quick grin. Its teeth look sharp. Vergil’s fingers curl on a hilt of a dagger at his waist, the other hand open. He realizes what is different with this demon. The lack of the undertone he often heard in the speech of Its kind is missing. If not for the eyes, he would say he is talking with another elf, Its voice a pleasant sound. Alluring.

Involuntarily, Vergil tenses further. “So quick to judge, are you?” He feels a chill spreading from the tips of his fingers, an echo of his heart working fast in his chest. If he was in his real body, it would start to hurt. He has no idea why he is losing it in the presence of this one, and it starts to _annoy_ him. He prides himself in staying cool in the eye of the danger, but this conversation is clearly testing his resolve. It is cracking. Not good.

“An observation.” It turns slightly and starts to slowly walk along some invisible barrier. “One of the many,” It adds quietly, searing golden eyes never leaving Vergil’s form. 

It doesn’t blink. 

It is unnerving.

He is so focused on maintaining the eye contact, that it almost slips him.

_“One of the many?”_ He frowns, the confusion bleeding through his control.

It merely nods at him without a pause in Its steps. It turns and starts to go back through the invisible path, the trimmed golden ends of Its robes fluttering behind. The dirt doesn’t touch them, despite dragging on the ground.

“I think I _would_ notice you lurking before,” the snort he lets out is quiet. “You are not exactly very subtle.” The power It is leaking is truly hard to miss.

Its step falters before It stops, finally breaking the eye contact, as It looks at Its feet for a moment. “Am I?” It asks softly. Then, piercing golden eyes are back at Vergil, pinning him in a spot, as It slowly moves _forward_, “Have you considered I let my presence to be known as a courtesy towards you?” Its smile is playful yet disturbing, elongated canines flashing in display.

Vergil’s throat tightens, as It stops few steps before him. The invisible barrier of the domain was merely an illusion; It purposely toyed with Vergil’s false sense of safety. 

Like It just waited for him to lower his defences. Its movements were hypnotising enough, as he focused on them.

He refuses to stand down and cower before It. 

He raises his chin in sudden burst of cold defiance. There is a sparkle of impish mirth in those glowing golden eyes, as It takes on Vergil’s posture.

“No need to be so alert,” It chides blandly as It brings hands from behind Its back, resting them at the sides, “Though, it is wise not to unlax completely.” It snickers faintly.

Vergil glances at Its palms, rich hazel skin smothered with darker spots of freckles. The breath in Vergil’s lungs seems to catch for a moment, when he sees the damp splotch of colour on one of Its hands.

“Oh, this?” Its gaze briefly flickers to the hand, dark purple ichor staining Its skin and the edges of the robes. “The heart is important, wouldn’t you agree?” The smile It sends at Vergil has too many teeth to be entirely friendly. “Why would I let the opportunity to get rid of a competition, when they so willingly left their domain,” the smile widens, “Fleeing because of a mortal? Someone like that does not deserve the power they held, so I took it.” Its tone is deceptively mellow, but he hears the undertone of a satisfied malevolence.

A shiver runs down his spine and he involuntarily shruggs to dispel it. The small movement is enough to have the demon’s focus back on him.

“Would it be your opinion differs on the matter?”

He watches as the purple stains vanish as dust in the wind, leaving the white cloth clean. How much of this form is a tailored illusion, Vergil wonders briefly.

“No,” he answers slowly, “Not so much. I just find it…,” _Barbarian_ is the first what comes to his mind and he tests the word before he voices another, “Vulgar.”

_And disturbing_, Vergil doesn’t add out loud. 

He gathers the pieces of his usual confidence. Demon or no demon, he will not falter under pressure. 

“Crush the heart of your enemy? I _can_ see it happen.” He meets the glowy golden stare without flinch. “But to use it as a power source?” He scoffs lightly. “What did you do with it, _devour_ it?” He lets the sarcasm bleed into his words.

“Yes.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” It tilts Its head, as in curiousity. “It’s not in my nature to lie. That’s purely _mortal _thing.”

Vergil’s eyes narrow. “You don’t lie?” He finds it hard to believe. “But you still twist the words to your liking, no?”

“Don’t you do the same?” It smiles smugly. “Warp the truth with the play of words, if you need.”

“_That’s_ lying.”

It shrugs. “You call it lying. And I say it’s mortals’ speciality. My _kind_,” It stresses the word, as It is talking about someone _better_, “Does not lie. Clever souls will prevail, foolish will perish.”

He knows he shouldn’t trust a word the demon utters. 

And _yet_… 

Demons supposedly represent Five Great Sins, they are the embodiment of mortal’s fears and imperfections. He was taught this for years, it was drilled into him on every step of his education – demons are bad and he was, is, a gateway for them, because he is not meek, ignorant, docile and thankful enough as a perfect Circle mage should be, he is too vain, too prideful, too greedy for more from life that he gets. He can’t be trusted with the power the Maker in his great wisdom gifted him with, so he should be watched, constantly, _always. _

He grits his teeth. 

“What do you want?” He should be out of this place. 

The sooner the better. The demon before him is an obstacle he didn’t plan on.

“Straight to the point, are we? Shame.” It sighs dramatically. “But I understand. We are on a timetable.”

Vergil doesn’t comment, only stares back.

“What you do now is stumbling in the dark. Just a touch to the surface. You can’t _use it _properly. You hurt yourself like that, using the tool not in the right way.”

He starts. _Does it know?_ He stifles the sudden need to scratch at his arm. “And why do you care?”

“You care not? You are fragile in this body, aren’t you? You should take proper care of it.” It sounds amused in Its patronising.

“You think you need _more_ power.”

Vergil inwardly rolls his eyes. “And I suppose you can offer me some?” _How typical for a demon_, he thinks.

“No.”

That makes him pause.

It nods at Vergil’s chest. “It is already _in_ there. What you need is will, discipline and time, and I offer the knowledge on _how_ to unlock the power you already hold. Without unnecessary complications. Think of it as a key. But,” It grins lazily, “you should work for it.”

“And it would amuse you to see me struggle.”

_“Greatly.”_

Vergil frowns. “This is your catch?” He asks crossing his arms. “Your moments of joy while watching me sweat for it?”

It hums. “Yes.”

He barely holds in a snort. “It _can’t_ be that simple.”

“And why not?” It brings a hand up to Its face, two fingers tapping gently on the lips in mock reflection. “Because you were _said _so? Ever thought, why _they _forbid you this?”

Suddenly, Vergil feels a gentle tug at the base of his skull. It seems his time here is up. “Why are you telling me this?”

“_Clumsy_ does not fit you.” It pauses, like is listening for something. “And I’m watching. You are used to it, aren’t you? To constant vigilance, to eyes on you, seeing what you do, whenever you want it or not…” The words start to lose their volume.

The world is blurring, and he feels too light as something pulls at him. Golden eyes are burning into his.

The last what he hears is a hiss of a whisper _“To hesitate is to…”_

The vertigo slowly fades, the ground under him solid. 

He breathes in and hears a shuffle, the familiar clink of a heavy armor. 

Something moist and thick gathered at his upper lip, dripping down onto his chin. He opens his eyes at the taste of blood in his mouth. 

“Ah, I wouldn’t be so hasty, my friend.” Zevran’s light words have a warning edge, as he steps closer and slightly in front of Vergil’s sitting form. 

Vergil blinks and moves, his body too stiff and lacking usual grace. He feels slightly nauseous. 

“Vergil?” Alistair’s worried voice and a movement to his right, when his fellow Warden crouches beside him. He glances at Alistair, then at the people in heavy templar armors, standing in a circle, clearly impatient, with metal gauntlets resting on their weapons. _Trigger happy as always_, a lazy thought appears in Vergil’s mind. 

His throat is dry as the desert, the smell of copper making his lips thin. He swallows before he rasps “It’s done.”

_To hesitate is to lose._


	2. Anchor

A slight spike of pain in his left temple makes him grimace.

Before he was allowed to retire for the night, he had to talk with First Enchanter about Connor, closely watched by templars participating in the ritual. The boy would be taken to the Circle with them and First Enchanter insisted on Vergil giving him his word about the banishment of the demon.

Vergil's glad his companions decided to stay with him then, Alistair howering near his side, eyeing fully armored templars, Zevran a steadying presence at his back. It wasn't as easy as usual, to sound coherent and logical when almost all of the time he had to focus on standing upright, forcing himself not to jerk instinctively at any shift or distinctive clink of steely armor. Holding himself together in a room full of unfriendly people watching for his misstep at his vulnerable moment. He put his trust into Alistair and Zevran then, and he wasn't disappointed.

After, he went to his room, hallways dark and cold, guided by the frightened servant who didn't look him in the eye even once. She didn't do much except showing him to the doors and practically fleeing after his brief thanks. He didn't expect anymore from her, the atmosphere in the castle was far from festive. There were places full of destroyed furniture, walls covered in grime and floors with splatters of blood. Corpses mangled beyond recognition and the all-present stench of decay. Of death and terror lingering in the air.

Vergil disrobes sluggishly, not caring where the pieces of his dirty armor and clothes fall. Still, it'd be very easy to accidentally trip on stray piece of clothing, with so little space to navigate. Lazily, he waves a hand and few stubby candles flicker to life with weak bluish flames.

He's cold, the shivers that started after he came back from the Fade intensified and he eyes thin blankets on the bed. There's no fireplace burning, as the room doesn't have one.

Small dusty mirror of nearby vanity reflects the lights of candle flames. There's some kind of mediocre tapestry on the wall above the bed. Bed, that could hold two people if they wouldn't mind close proximity, with dusty looking mattress and sheets. Still a novelty after the last inn they stayed at, beside their usual sleeping conditions while on the road. Wardrobe, empty, sans few cloths he could use as towels. Rug, that probably seen better days. Stone grey walls, some wooden beams holding the ceiling. It's tiny, like a spare closet and the lack of windows isn't doing it any good.

He tries not to think about it, of the walls being too close, the lack of real space.

A bucket of water near the small wooden tub awaits his attention and he snorts at it. If they wanted him to feel insulted it almost worked, but he is too tired to care about it at the moment. He'd just add it to the list of small but annoying things he has to deal with and move on. For now.

After he pours the water into the tub and wearily summons some snow, ignoring the wave of nausea. Vergil fumbles at his pack for the vial with a small shard of fire crystal. Useful little thing, warming water without him flexing anymore of his magic muscles. He'd have to rest for a day or two, as he nearly met his limit in the last three days. First the cursed village, then castle and then mad dash through the Tower... or what was left of it. He shudders at the thought, quickly shunning it for later, _later_, not now, not when he feels his mind is so fragile and ready to shatter. He overused his magic, his body and he feels sore all over. Bones and soul.

He doesn't want to think of the golden-black eyes staring at him.

He can't stretch his limbs in the tiny tub, so he just sits there with his forehead on his knees folded like a paper doll, just because he doesn't have the strength to move a finger.

Later, when his breath feels less sticky and heavy, he goes over the movements of bathing, slowly, water cooling faster in cold room, but he doesn't mind as much as he would any other day. Doing well despite the shivers and chattering teeth.

He just wants to feel clean again, but it seems that no amount of water and soap on his skin would make it happen. Last days were a nightmare, literal nightmare. Left his mind sluggish, thoughts scattered, life energy nearly drained into staying out there _alive._ He wishes to stop thinking and just _sleep_, curl up in bed and rest, but he knows it won't happen. He dreads closing his eyes, because then any control that he has will slip and he'd be at the mercy of _the other. _

Exhausted, easy to pick on, like a wounded prey.

In the whirlwind of events Vergil pushed and ran himself to the ground. Building back his mental strength will take time and he already hates it. Hates, that he can't do anything to speed it up, because he's aware any interruption would be counterproductive, any potions would be harmful, not helpful in long way and he has to wait and let his body heal at its own.

Maybe he should use a pinch of the ashes on himself, just before he'll speak up and tell Teagan about having them on his person already.

It just slipped his mind earlier, or maybe he was pissed off at the nobleman who seemed to leave all the subtlety in pushing new quests on his party, new demands veiled in pleas to his morals. He'd scoff at the man thinking he could manipulate him as he'd be a naïve one. Vergil's aware of the '_you do me a favour I'll owe you a favour'_ rule in works, it isn't that different from how Circle looked like. Helping Arl's family is just a mean to an end, a thing that would help him in the long run, not because his heart bled at the broken pleas of Connor's mother to save his life, _“because he's a little boy who just wanted to save his father.”_

Vergil saw what that little boy did, what Isolde let happen, what Teagan let happen. All deaths are on them just as much it are on the demon. He wonders if Arlessa and Teagan are fucking. Probably yes, seeing how close both of them are, even if they act all proper in public. Vergil humms as he unhurriedly washes his hair, thinking he'd have to ask Zevran to do a little scoop in noble's rooms. It's always good to have a leverage on men in power.

Slowly, so slowly he finishes his bath, puts on some clothes and drinks half of the lyrium vial, scowling at the taste. The cool feeling washes down on his insides and he swallows a content sigh, a gentle whisper of calm spreading in his veins with the pulse of his heartbeat.

Unhurriedly, Vergil starts to work on braiding his damp hair, skimming cream coated fingers over long strands. He almost falls asleep halfway, arms feeling like iron and pulling him down, when a knock to his door happens. He pauses, briefly thinking of people who would be on the other side and shuffles to the door, seeing the one who he hoped he would.

“I bear gifts?” Zevran's easy smile is triumphant, as he's presenting a dark dusted bottle.

Vergil blinks and doesn't say a thing, just steps away allowing Zevran to get in. Zevran's smirk briefly widens at Vergil's back, as he's deftly juggling with the things he has on his hands, busy kicking the doors closed. Vergil sits on the bed, finishing his braid, hair over one shoulder. The skin around Zevran's eyes pulls tight despite his slowly fading grin, looking him over, slouched on the bed.

“I already bathed, yes.” Vergil answers the unvoiced question, as the man takes his time to glance around the room. Looking for hidden servant entries perhaps.

“A shame, we could have shared,” he teases, fingers toying with buckle of his armor belt. It looked as Zevran didn't care with cleaning up just yet. Vergil leaves his braid halfway done and glances at the tub with sceptical expression. “I doubt we'd both fit, even with your flexibility.”

There's a quiet _'tsk'_ before the golden eyes focus on him. “Would you be persuaded to share the tub, then?”

“No bath in your room?” At the shake of Zevran's head he asks, his voice slightly hoarse. “Persuaded with what?” He leans forward, elbow on his knee as he rests his chin in hand, a shadow of playfulness in his gaze. “You know I'll have to summon some ice to fill it.”

“A bottle of this?” Zevran brings up the wine and gently shakes it. “You don't look like you'd be up for _other_ kind of persuasion,” he teases. “I must say the purple doesn't really suit you.”

Vergil's fingers brush the skin under his eye and he holds in a snort, but doesn't deny the obvious. He tilts his head with a sigh. “You raided the cellars?” Zevran shifts, looking for something to pour the wine into. He murmurs something under his breath as he doesn't find any mugs. “Among other things, yes. I found _some_ things I think you'd be interested in.”

“Oh?” Vergil stays on bed as he's watching Zevran opening the bottle with easily procured knife, not caring about the cork. He reaches his hand for the bottle, eager for the taste of that first sip when Zevran's fingers briefly close on his, holding the bottle out of his reach. “Allow me.”

Vergil's brows furrow at being denied. “Why?”

“Well, if it's poisoned, I'd be fine. You never know what this Jowan person did to assure his mission is complete.” Zevran's tone is light but his eyes hold some of the steely glint. Even if Vergil wanted to voice the first thing that came to his mind, about Jowan not being _that_ clever as to leave the poison in unopened bottle and cover his tracks, he stops himself.

Because he _doesn't know._

He probably never knew the man, not that he really bothered to. Everybody has their secrets in the Circle and guard them dearly.

“If you insist,” he surrenders, but he's watching how Zevran takes a small mouthful without hesitation, closing his eyes briefly before he swallows. Vergil's focus zeroes on Zevran's throat, gaze flickering to his lips, following the slow motion of it.

“And?” He has to cough to get rid of the sudden rasp in his voice. Zevran's gaze's knowing, but he holds onto his serious mask.

“I think I have to check again.”

The pull he takes now is much larger, tips of his mouth tilting up in a smirk, stretched around the bottle, and just as he's done with the drink and opens his mouth to say something, Vergil's up and his lips are on Zevran's, tongue quick and retreating before Zevran has the thought to follow it and sitting down on the bed again.

“Not bad,” Vergil looks pleased with himself, licking his lips and chasing the taste. “I guess the Arl stores some of the Orlesian vintage,” his nose scrunches up delicately, “given the heritage of his wife.”

A curious look passes on Zevran's face. “Tingles,” he quietly observes as he brushes a thumb on his lower lip.

“The wine?” Vergil asks, wondering if the wine was poisoned after all. “No? But there's a tickle.” A wrinkle appears between his brows as he rolls his lips. “Tastes bittersweet? I think it reminds me of something...” he trails off muttering to himself. Vergil glances at the lyrium vial left on the vanity table. Interesting.

A sudden yawn escapes him, eyes watering and he blinks out the tears, stilling as gentle fingers brush the underside of his jaw. Zevran looks at him calmly, expression softened. The hold on his face is easy to break, but he doesn't move, looking up at eyes of molten gold, allowing him to lightly cup his face with a tilt into Zevran's hand. He briefly closes his eyes, letting himself breathe deeply and relax his shoulders. His fingers circle Zevran's wrist, twisting it gently so his lips graze over soft warm skin and he tugs at the hand, leaning forward as Zevran steps closer, between his knees, eyes darkened and unreadable. Vergil curls his fingers in the belt at his waist, resting his forehead on his covered stomach. He stays like that for a moment, soaking in Zevran's presence and huffs lightly as he feels a hand hesitantly hovering around his neck. A single _go on_ murmured into the worn leather is enough for him to feel the weigth of Zevran's hand at his nape, fingers weaving into his loose braid, squeezing briefly before they start to gently scrap at his skin. If Vergil's next exhale is a bit more shaky, no one says a thing.

After few minutes Vergil slowly pushes away from Zevran, his touch nearly making him fall asleep.

He manages to summon ice for his bath, showing Zevran how to use a fire shard without burning himself. As Zevran eagerly starts to take off his armor, he lies down on the bed, facing away, giving the man some privacy.

The light headache starts to crawl out at the back of his skull and he rubs at his tightly closed eyelids until he sees stars. Zevran hums something softly, not any louder than the quiet splash of water breaking the comfortable silence. Vergil feels himself slowly dozing off to the accompaniment of soft noises, but the pain doesn't vanish, so he grits his teeth and sits up. Zevran glances at him, stopping his silent song, but Vergil just shakes his head, and seeks out another tiny vial with a pinch of green powder, adding some of the wine to stirr it together and washing it down with a generous mouthful straight from the bottle.

Zevran looks amused as he holds out the bottle to him. “Should whatever you took be mixed with wine?” He asks as he takes it from Vergil, immediately taking a gulp.

“No.” He quirks a tiny smile at Zevran's snort. Before he's lying down at the bed again he fluffies the lump of a pillow with few punches, “But it'll work nevertheless.”

“If you say so,” Zevran drinks one more time before he leaves the bottle on the floor. Vergil's half lidded eyes lazily track Zevran's movements as he reasumes his bath.

“Remember the chamberlein?” The sudden question makes Vergil blink before he answers. “Rotting corpse that was set on biting a chunk of my flesh upon opening the doors?” He rolls his shoulder at the memory of the stench and blunt looking teeth. “How could I not.”

“Hmm yes, I happened to do a quick pat of what was left of the poor man and found a key.”

“A key?”

“Yes, a key. I believe it fits the lock to the armory.” Zevran's eyes glint. “Maybe even to few chests with something more of value.” Vergil bites his lip as he thinks it over. “We'll check it. I can't do much with promises of generosity later when I need it now, do I.”

Zevran's chuckle is quiet. “That's what I thought.”

He's quick to finish his bath, water turning cold, muscles in his legs screaming at him to stretch from the cramped position. Zevran swiftly leaves the tub and reaches for discarded towel to hastily wipe most of the water before he starts shivering.

“You can stay if you-” it looks like the words are out before he thinks them over and Vergil almost chokes on his spit, closing his mouth with a quiet hiss of inhale. Zevran pauses in putting on his pants, stray droplets of water still clinging to his skin. Watching Vergil's face change from surprised to irritable to carefully neutral in a moment makes him hold in a chuckle bubbling in his chest. The silence stretches as Vergil doesn't say anything more, refusing to even look at him.

Sulking.

Zevran bites on his lip to stop himself from laughing out loud, nonchalantly reassuming his dressing up for the night.

“If you want me to warm your bed you just have to say so,” he teases to lighten up the mood. Vergil's eyes snap at his, narrowing at Zevran's light smile.

“That's why you're here for.” There's something feverish in his strangely neutral gaze as he looks at Zevran. The skin under his eyes is visibly darker, face paler than usual. Or it could be the trick of light, through Zevran discards the thought, noticing few stray shivers making Vergil squirm under thin blanket, even if he tries to hide them.

“That's why I am here for,” he agrees, “also, the chance to clean myself? I didn't think Alistair would be as welcoming as you, even if he has a fireplace.”

Vergil sits up abruptly. “He has _what?_” The hiss with barely hidden outrage makes Zevran's smile widen, as he casually makes his way to the other side of bed, only crouching down to the floor for his discarded belt and a small knife. He slips the dagger under his pillow before he reaches for other blanket, unfolding it over himself, half-listening to Vergil's murmured rant over ungrateful nobles and their stinky demon children. Vergil seems to lose some of his steam, shaking his head and making himself comfortable beside Zevran, a silver of space between them. He meets his gaze as he looks up at Zevran, “We are riding that armory as soon as we have the chance,” he slurs sleepily, eyelids already dropping.

Zevran hums in agreement, wrapping himself into the blanket, already thinking of a subtle way of scooting closer to Vergil. He was only part joking about bed warming. He watches how Vergil's face changes when he slowly drifts off, expression softening and breathing slowing down. It happens much quicker than usual, Zevran notices, thinking about the concotion Vergil drank earlier. He lets himself relax into the mattress, listening for any weird noises outside the room. Finding none, he closes his eyes with a sigh.

Later, though he can't exactly pinpoint the time, a small sound easily wakes him up. He stays still, listening and carefully opening his eyes when another soft sound leaves the man lying beside Zevran. The hand under his pillow relaxes its hold on the hilt of the dagger and he quietly looks at Vergil, who's almost always perfectly still in his sleep. Quiet and unmoving like dead, so the noises he's making now are unusal. He contemplates waking him up, if it'd get any louder, but before he has the chance to observe more, Vergil's eyes snap open.

He inhales harshly, looking as he'd faced army of shadows and Zevran blinks, not sure if he should reach out or not, risking a lash out from a spooked mage.

So he doesn't move, patiently staying on his side, and watching as Vergil slowly gathers himself and groggily sits up. He slips from the bed, untangling his unsteady legs from the blanket and reaches for the vial standing on the vanity, drinking what was left of the potion in one gulp. He stands there for a moment, steadying himself with both hands, head bowed. Some black strands escaped his sloppy braid, hanging limply around his face, but it seems that Vergil isn't bothered by possible tangles in his hair, padding back to the bed and setting back under sheets.

It's quiet. Zevran's heart beats steadily, calmly and he shrugs off the stiffnes of his shoulders.

“Zevran,” there's a questioning tilt in the rasp of Vergil's whisper, cool sensation of hesitant fingertips on Zevran's own hand. He flips his palm to get a hold of Vergil's cold fingers and squeezes. Vergil's answering grip is weaker, “I'm cold.”

Unusal.

“_Come here_,” he murmurs, voice heavy with sleep, already rolling over, and Vergil takes that as an invitation, pressing himself to his back, surprisingly neatly arranging himself under two combined blankets. Zevran can already call the difference, even with shivering ice mage leeching warmth from his body. He insticively curls up his shoulder at the waft of cool breath near his neck, grunts at cold nose brushing his skin, but positively yelps at the fingers on his stomach moving under his shirt and holding on in iron grip. He grumbles at Vergil's amused huff, scooting back his legs, refusing to meet with icy toes, though he doesn't have much space to manouver and his calves soon are a safe warm harbor for Vergil's leg sneaking in between his thighs. Vergil's forehead touch his shoulder just before he feels a slight nip to the exposed skin, and Zevran can hear as his breathing slows down again.

He tilts his head back slightly, wearily exhaling through his nose. He doesn't expect to sleep well for the rest of the night, not when he's a prisoner to temporarily heat-lacking ice mage, locked in slightly uncomfortable position, without the possibility of moving without waking Vergil up and making him _grumpy_. He'd insist for a compensation, Zevran thinks, fingers idly stroking cold skin of Vergil's arm holding him in a grip.

Unrushed, thoroughful and passionate compensation in this very bed, before they're leaving the castle. A small smirk appears on his lips, as he's thinking of ways they'd both enjoy the little luxury and privacy that a solid roof over their heads can guarantee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it'd be a series, because I have some ideas. Slowly updating series xD


End file.
